


Un Peu d’Amour, un Brin de Miel

by mautadite



Category: The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For her seventeenth birthday, Frank takes Hazel to Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un Peu d’Amour, un Brin de Miel

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains a whole lot of fluff and a whole lot of wishful thinking. Title from Indila’s [Dernière Danse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5KAc5CoCuk) which doesn’t have a lot to do with the content of the fic, but it’s a pretty song.
> 
> Hover over dialogue in French for the translation.

For her seventeenth birthday, Frank takes her to Paris.

They take off from LaGuardia two days before her birthday, after a weeklong stay visiting Nico and the others at Camp Half-Blood. Different methods of getting across the pond are discussed, from hitching a ride on the Argo II, to calling in a favour from one of their parents, or even a really ambitious shadow travel leap. In the end, Hazel decides that she wants to do as regular mortals do, and start off their nice gods-and-magic-free vacation on a nice gods-and-magic-free note.

“I’ve never actually been on a plane before,” she reminds Frank, “and if I’m going to live in this century I should get the experience at least once, right?”

Frank just gives her one of those meltingly sweet smiles, and agrees that she’s right.

When the usual airsickness starts to kick in at forty thousand feet, she thinks she might have been wrong after all, but Frank is right next to her, cuddling her in as big of a bear hug as their seatbelts will allow. He rubs her back soothingly, talking about the great time they’re going to have in Paris and Bordeaux. Just the sound of his voice is enough to settle the mild waves of nausea, though it might also have something to do with the ginger drink he makes her sip.

“It’ll get better, this is just turbulence,” he assures her, one big arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple. “It’s just like that helicopter that time, or being on the Argo II. Better, actually; we can probably rule out the possibility of getting attacked by evil monsters mid-flight.”

“We can _definitely_ rule out monsters,” Hazel counters, getting comfortable on his shoulder. Shielding themselves with the Mist isn’t a problem. “And any of them who _do_ show up are going to regret the day Tartarus spawned them,” she adds fiercely. They’ve been planning this vacation for _months_. 

“That’s my girl,” Franks says, and his grin lights up his whole face.

The flight does smoothen out, just like he promises. Hazel knows Frank himself didn’t have anything to do with it, but it still makes her feel like clouds are forming in her chest. She’s known him for almost four years, been to hell and back and there once again with him, had her curse broken by him, stared at the end of the world straight in the face with him at her side. And during all that time, Hazel’s come to learn one thing in particular about him. Frank always keeps his promises. 

On impulse, she tugs him down so that she can kiss his cheek. They spend the rest of the flight napping, eating little salted crackers, and watching Disney movies dubbed in French on his iPad.

~

Charles de Gaulle is even more hectic than the airport in New York. Their flight lands early in the morning on the next day, and it’s as if the city and all the terminals wake up with their arrival. Christmas decorations bloom in every arch, with wreaths and laurels and mistletoe, and every now and then they come across a huge Christmas tree. And there are people everywhere, speaking every language imaginable, milling about or rushing to catch their flights.

They’ve both been practising their metropolitan French accents (the natural compromise between the creole that she’d learnt growing up, and the Quebecois that he’d gotten from school), and between the two of them, they soon make it out of the airport with all their baggage intact. Frank insists on carrying all of their bags as they wait for the airport shuffle.

“I don’t want you getting yourself all tired out,” he insists, shuffling away when Hazel makes a grab for one of the smaller carry-ons. “You’re already yawning on your feet, let’s just get you to the hotel and into bed.”

“Why Mr. _Zhang_!” Hazel exclaims, fanning her face and absolutely failing to hide her mischievous grin. She watches with a giggle as her boyfriend figuratively turns into a very tall, handsome, nineteen year old tomato.

“You know what I mean,” he mumbles under his breath, blushing hard, and doesn’t quite return to his regular colour until after the bus arrives.

~

He gives her the window seat without asking; another thing she loves him for. Ground travel is the kind Hazel likes best, and she wants to remember every aspect of this trip.

They’ve been all over the world, across America, up and down the Mediterranean, to Italy and the African continent and Greece, and it’s never before occurred to Hazel to do something as mundane and wonderful as sight-seeing. The Parisian landscape from the airport to the city centre doesn’t offer anything particularly exhilarating, true, but she links arms with Frank, camera in hand, and makes a note of everything that ambles by anyway. It’s a little exciting, honestly, to have the _time_ to take a picture of a cute cow, to point out a word on a billboard that she remembers learning with Frank, to be something like a normal teenager with her boyfriend.

Gaea has been gone for more than three years, now, and even the air itself seems cleaner and healthier for it. That last battle had killed a little piece of Hazel and taken it back to the Underworld. She's never going to get over the horrible shock of seeing Percy lying pale and still upon the earth. They'd thought that they had lost him. They _had_ lost him, according to Nico, for a few moments, the words upon his lips fulfilling the last part of the prophecy.

It had been Jason and Piper who’d brought him back, with a tiny, desperate jolt of lightning and a pleading order saying that he couldn't die, not now.

It's always chilling, recalling that frozen moment of fear before the Son of Neptune had gasped, and opened his eyes anew.

Now, the earth sleeps, and they can all put down roots, in one way or another. Hazel finds an anchor in Frank, and it wrenches pleasantly at her heart to know that he thinks the same of her. The first two years after Gaea had been busy, with the Seven having to flit all over North America, putting down Mother Earth’s supporters and sending the last of her children back to Tartarus. But somehow, in the midst of it, she and Frank had gravitated even closer together, forming something more precious than anything she can ever hope to summon from the ground. 

This gem, she promises herself, is going to shine.

Hazel beams up at him, her attention wavering briefly from the view outside her window. Following another impulse, she leans back for perspective, and snaps a quick picture of him.

“Hey.” Frank pouts at her. “Not fair, I wasn’t ready.”

“Sorry.” Hazel smiles at the picture. He’s staring at a spot over her head outside the window, soft-faced and calm. Maybe the interior of a bus isn’t the ideal background to highlight the hero that she knows slumbers beneath his mild exterior, but she likes this photo. “It’ll make a good memory anyway.”

~

Checking in to the hotel is blissfully simple. Frank booked them a single room with two beds that Hazel immediately pushes together once they’re alone. Frank just shakes his head at her, arranging their luggage and unpacking the essentials. Hazel, in the meantime, busies herself with making an Iris call to Nico back at the Greek camp. It’s pretty late in New York, but they’d thrown a party to see Frank and Hazel off, and if she knows her friends, they’re still at it.

Sure enough, when she’s connected, the mist shows her an image of her brother lighted by campfire, calm and cool to contrast with the revelry in the backdrop.

“Should I even ask?” Hazel laughs as Coach Hedge frolics around in the background, beating on his chest with a whisk and a pot-holder, chanting some kind of war cry.

“You probably don’t want to,” Nico says dryly. “Hey sis. How was the flight?”

“Pretty okay, actually. Frank got us movies to watch, that took my mind off things. I’m just checking in, letting you guys know we got here okay.”

“Hang on a bit, I’ll round them up.”

Frank curls up behind her, hugging her waist, and everyone drops by to say hello. Jason drapes himself over Nico’s shoulder and talks football stuff with Frank before Leo butts in, and pleads with them to bring him something cool. Piper and Reyna were apparently having an impromptu training session, but the head of Aphrodite cabin still pops in to say hi, and makes them promise to call her if they need any help translating stuff.

Even Percy, recently back from a quest where he’d been injured, makes his way over, limping and a little high off of ambrosia.

“Have fun kids, but not _too_ much fun,” he says, then he gives them the finger-guns, winking several times until Annabeth hits him over the head and tells them to ignore him. Frank places his face into his hands, and Hazel grins at Nico through the mist. Their trip is starting off excellently.

~

Hazel concedes to taking an hour long nap (splayed in the middle of the beds with Frank curled up as a pug on her stomach) but that’s all her excited nerves will allow. She’s determined for them to see as much of Paris as they can in one day. Arming themselves with comfortable shoes, snacks, maps and metro passes, they venture out into the heart of the city.

The winding streets and boulevards are a swarm of tourists and shoppers. The real cold hasn’t started yet, according to the weather channel, and the current chilliness of the air does nothing to deter the crowds. Bundled up comfortably, Frank and Hazel first make their way to an Arabian café, and eat an early lunch of gyros and fries outside under a pale wintry sun. 

Midway through their meal, Frank nudges Hazel’s foot under the table, and points up at a stone gargoyle on the roof of the building next door, crooning a very rousing version of _La Marseillaise_ to the pigeons that surround him. Hazel laughs, almost choking on a piece of lamb, and the gargoyle glares down at them, realising that he has an unwanted audience.

“ _Occupez-vous de vos oignons !_ ” he snaps, and lurches off along a parapet while Frank pats Hazel on the back. They can hear him complaining to the pigeons as he goes along, either saying very rude things about the sea or using a word that would probably make him best friends with Arion.

“Living gargoyles, huh?” Hazel says, patting her lips with a napkin.

“I guess we can’t be surprised. It is Paris, after all.”

And Paris, to see it and hear tell of it, is magic. The city is old, and the gods are alive here in spirit, if not in form. Walking through the streets, the relics of the mythological past are everywhere to see. Roman and Greek statues are dotted here and there. There is an old dragon-like creature curled up on the steps of the Arènes de Lutèce, lazing peacefully in the sun. A large jewel glints in its forehead. As Hazel and Frank watch, it suddenly rears up on its legs, roaring ferociously at nothing. Before either of them can react, a bored-looking nymph appears out of nowhere, opens her robes to its eyes, and the creature shrinks back into docility. 

Not far from there, the archaeological crypts beneath Notre Dame are teeming with ghosts and lares, floating about with dour severity. They seem pretty staid compared to the ones back at Camp Jupiter. 

“What do you think they’re protecting?” Frank whispers. His hand engulfs hers as they wander away from the guide, looking with awe upon the great stone statues and ruins. “I mean, it must be something the mortals don’t know about, right?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s gotta be something important.”

She doesn’t think she needs to know; seeing them reminds her a bit of the camp, and instead of feeling homesick, Hazel is buoyed by the familiarity in the midst of all these relics of an ancient past. As ever, she feels at home underground, and she can sense that great power was once seated here, and still remains slumbering.

The lares do not speak to them, though they obviously recognise them for what they are. As they leave, Hazel feels the prickling weight of being watched at her back, and she turns back in time to see a group of the lares salute to Frank’s retreating form. Hazel wonders if the guardians can sense the mark of a praetor, if they know of all his great deeds. She can’t imagine otherwise; she sees his valour in every stretch of his long legs.

Hazel bows low, paying her respect, before she trots to catch up with Frank.

~

There is a little crowd at the southern end of the Pont des Arts, and it’s making Frank flustered. Hazel looks up curiously at his blushing face, but waits for him to explain. In the interim, she clicks away with her camera, documenting every little moment and thing that seems like it could be memory worthy: the view of the Seine as it courses past, a heron standing one-footed on a lamppost, the Eiffel Tower in the distance. There are a lot more photos stored on the camera by the time Frank clears his throat.

“Oh, uh… yeah. I’d heard about this. Do you see all the locks?”

A few of the people in the crowd have wandered away, and Hazel notices them: hundreds of locks clasped to the metal fencing of the bridge, so clustered that the metalwork is barely visible, and appearing all along the span of the bridge. The yellow sunlight glints off of them, making them glitter and shine.

“Oh… it’s so pretty,” Hazel breathes, and waits for a few more people to clear away so that she can also snap a photo.

“It’s a little Parisian tradition,” Frank explains, shoving his hands nervously in his pockets. “Well… more of a touristy thing than anything, I think. Couples sign locks with their names and a little message of something, and attach it to the railing. Then, they throw the keys into the Seine. It’s supposed to symbolise that their love is unbreakable.”

Hazel trots closer. Two girls walk away, hand in hand, leaving behind a lock with the words _‘Adèle + Celia’_ contained within a heart. A few feet away, a boy and a girl bicker playfully over whether to use his bronze lock or her pink one. Every lock that she can see has a pair of names written or carved into it. Her heart feels like it wants to melt.

“This is so cute,” she says with a beam, turning back to Frank. She notices that he still looks a bit uncomfortable, and bites her bottom lip. “I mean… I guess it’s kind of cheesy.”

“Yeah… I guess so,” Frank says, also chewing on his lip.

“You wouldn’t want to…”

“No! I mean, not unless…”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind, it’s just if…”

“Yeah, I don’t have a problem, if you…”

They both trail off, and burst into giggles at their own expense. Sheepishly, Frank reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lock made of the finest imperial gold. Hazel gasps with delight.

“I kinda had it done up before we even left the States,” he confesses. “I understand if you don’t want to, it’s really sappy, but…”

Hazel shushes him, and carefully takes the lock out of his hands. It is of a fair size, though not big enough to draw unwarranted attention, and is engraved with the words _‘Hazel + Frank, throughout and for all time’_. To her embarrassment, she feels the hot prickle of tears behind her eyelids. Frank is the sweetest guy she knows, and he’s done a lot of amazing and wonderful things for her over the years, saved her life so many times that this shouldn’t even register, but it does. Love for him so immense and clear solidifies in her heart, and she touches the piece of tinder, safe around her neck as it always is in its fireproof sheath.

“Oh gods… are you crying? I didn’t—”

She shuts him up by getting onto her tiptoes, flinging her arms around his neck, and kissing him three quick times on the lips. 

“I love it almost as much as I love you,” she says, and Frank gives a great big grin, and kisses her three more times.

They find a nice spot to attach the lock, and Hazel puts the Mist to work for her, making sure that the mortals won’t see anything too different from all the other locks that adorn the bridge. Hazel slides the key out, and when the lock snicks into place, it is with a heart-warming sort of finality. She hands it over to Frank.

“Want to do the honours, Mr. Zhang?”

Taking the key from her hand, Frank takes a step back, winds up, and flings the little piece of gold so far away, they can’t see or hear where it lands in the great river.

~

On the north bank of the Seine, they decide that the line for the Louvre is far too long, and they can leave it for another day. Instead, they get steaming cups of hot chocolate, and take a long, leisurely walk down the Champs-Élysées. Some kids in Hephaestus cabin have been developing a secure network for demigods, and Hazel feels safe enough to take her phone off of airplane mode for a while, and message the gang a selfie that she and Frank had taken on the bridge. Not all of them have phones or turn them on very often, but a few replies trickle in while they walk.

 **‘Ugh. :)’** From Nico, and Hazel knows her brother well enough by now to understand that that translates into ‘you guys are cute’.

 **‘now u guys gotta get me a cool gift AND a dentists appointment. youre even giving FESTUS cavities.’** From Leo, accompanied by a picture of him looking inside of the dragon’s mouth.

 **‘aww. Is that the river of Love? ;D’** Sent from Annabeth’s phone, but they’re both pretty sure it’s from Percy.

She shoots off a few quick replies, and then turns the phone off. Leo’s message had reminded her that she _did_ want to get everyone a little something special, and now is as good a time as any to start looking. They peek into windows as they walk, making comments about wacky statuettes and overpriced models of the Eiffel Tower. Two guys in Santa Claus costumes cajole them down a side street and through great sliding doors, and they spend ten minutes lost in the massive toy store before making their escape.

“Maybe we can come back later, get that Superman cape for Jason,” Frank jokes.

“He _would_ wear it pretty well,” Hazel muses, eyes twinkling, and they snicker as they start back along the avenue, still holding hands. 

It’s amazing, just being with him like this, discovering a new place together, talking and laughing comfortably. Hazel remembers a moment, what seems like a lifetime ago, wishing that she could have an afternoon like this, to just walk the streets of New Rome with her boyfriend. After all this time, it feels like she’s being repaid three times over for her wait.

Frank is perfect. Something about Paris seems to bring out his playfulness; he smiles more, walks taller, lifts her over a puddle like a gentleman in one of those black and white pictures she and her mother would go see at the State Theatre. And just like in her daydreams, he never lets go of her hand.

“I keep expecting Piper’s mom to pop out of nowhere,” Hazel confesses, glancing around in the midst of her bliss. “This city is one of her regular hangouts, right?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Frank replies. “We haven’t been having much luck on that gods-and-magic-free score.”

“I guess that was a little ambitious of me,” Hazel laughs. “And I don’t think Paris would be Paris without either of them, the gods or the magic.”

Frank beams down at her, his kind brown eyes soft.

“Want to go see more of it?”

“You bet.”

~

They get hot, flaky galettes from a little bakery, and then consult their map.

“Where to next?” Hazel asks, huddling close to him under the awning outside. Frank points to a hill on the map, further north in the city.

“Think we can make it to Montmartre before sundown?”

“We can try.”

They take the metro across the 9th arrondissement, still discussing gift ideas as they take seats in one of the crowded cars. Hazel thinks they should get Reyna a fancy French cookbook, since she’s shown a surprising love of and affinity for baking. Last year she made the most elegant cake for Piper’s birthday.

“Pretty much melted on your tongue,” reminisces Frank.

“And it was cool how she baked those little golden artefacts right into it.”

Unfortunately, their discussion of the praetor’s culinary skills distracts them so much that they miss their stop, but they only overshoot it by a couple stations. Walking appeals to them both, especially as the sun seems to be shining brighter than ever, putting out a last spurt of energy before it sets in a few hours.

“C’mon strategy man, find us a solution,” Hazel teases. Frank grins, and inspects the map with an extra ounce of gravity.

“Let’s see… if we cut through this neighbourhood here, that’ll get us to Chateau Rouge pretty easily. If we’re tired by then, we can take the metro back. But if not, it’ll only be a few minutes’ walk to Sacré-Cœur. We can get a good view of Montmartre from there. The whole of Paris, actually.”

“Sounds like a plan to me Mr. Zhang. What’s this neighbourhood called?”

“Goutte d’Or.”

“ _Drop of Gold_... that seems promising.”

It is. Goutte d’Or turns out to have a large immigrant population, mostly from the north western parts of Africa. After a few minutes of walking, Hazel and Frank find themselves right in the midst of a large, colourful market. They stroll amidst stalls selling various fruits, meats and foodstuffs. A few streets away, they come across another open air market, larger and noisier and more crowded. There are booths selling vibrant cloths, spices, clothing and accessories from all parts of the world, and every kind of product imaginable. Vendors hawk their wares loudly, sometimes in their own language, sometimes in French so heavily accented that it’s difficult to understand, for intermediates like them. Hazel doesn’t mind. It’s buoying, to find the heart of another culture nestled within Paris like a gem set in gold.

Frank politely vetoes several suggestions of new shoes and coats that he should buy, but Hazel finds herself being lured in by an incredible array of hair products and oils. Two of the Senegalese women at the stall, one young and one old, start exclaiming and clucking about her hair. It’s the fifth day of her twist out, and it _is_ looking kind of tired. Hazel hasn’t been fussed over this much in ages, and before she knows it, she’s being ushered into their shop, and the women are promising that they won’t be long.

 _‘Is this okay?’_ she mouths to Frank, and he smiles as he nods, and follows.

It’s tight but cosy in the little shop, and the air is heavy with the scent of a meal being cooked somewhere upstairs. Wigs and weaves and hair pieces adorn the walls, along with more oils and creams. One of the women brings a sample sheet to Hazel, lets her pick out the hairstyle she’d like. The older lady, who wears a headscarf and a kindly smile, sits Hazel down in a chair and starts in on her hair right away. Frank hovers near the door.

“ _Assieds-toi, mon grand_ ,” says the younger girl, grinning and speaking slowly for their benefit. She has huge dimples in her smooth brown cheeks. “ _J’vais pas te mordre._ ”

He takes the teasing with a grin, sitting down on a stool. As he does, Hazel spots something that _might_ bite; a black-backed jackal of all things, with piercingly grey eyes, nosing around the entrance. She gasps when the animal slips inside, but the women only smile and pat its head. She glances at Frank, who has gone on alert in that quietly focused way he has. But the animal gives no sign of being anything other than perfectly tame while Hazel’s hair is being combed. He even comes up to her and levels her with his light gaze before moving away. Usually animals can’t stand her. When the jackal walks back to the door, passers-by shoo him, as one would a cat or dog.

Her hair takes the better part of an hour, but the result is worth it; cornrows in the front, and a fall of thick twists to the back. When she’s paying them, Hazel follows a hunch, and slips in several denarii in between the euros. The younger woman smiles when she sees them.

“Romans, is that so?” she says, biting one of the coins between her teeth as she glances from Hazel to Frank. It takes Hazel a moment to realise that she is speaking in Latin. “Such kind faces, for death and war.”

Frank blinks rapidly, but recovers from his surprise sooner than Hazel. The women are studying them closely.

“So we’ve been told.”

She beams at them, chuckling. For a moment, her eyes shine silver like the jackal’s.

“Enjoy the city, my young friends. Paris knows that you are here, and it welcomes you.”

~

“Who do you think they were?” Frank wonders when they are back on the street, weaving through the great market. The women — minor goddesses, they’re both pretty sure — had given them directions for which streets to avoid on their way through the neighbourhood, as well as coaxed Hazel into buying a bottle of carrot oil for her hair.

“I can’t say… do you think Chiron would know anything about African pantheons?” The women hadn’t offered names, or asked for theirs, which doesn’t surprise Hazel. Names have power.

“We can always ask him when we get back.”

The streets get more and more crowded. By the time they arrive at the Chateau Rouge metro station, there is a large exodus of people, mostly tourists, heading towards Sacré-Cœur. Its gleaming travertine façade is stark white against the blue and grey sky. It won’t be hard to climb to the summit, but it will take longer than they’d planned.

Frank glances at Hazel at the same time she glances at him.

“I love how you always know what I’m thinking,” he says, and pulls her by the hand into a deserted alleyway where he can change and take off without being seen.

Frank’s giant eagle form is, as always, majestic to behold: dark plumage, an impressive wingspan, and striking eyes. This is the only kind of flying that doesn’t make her sick or nervous; she climbs onto his neck without hesitation and clings tight as he rises into the air. Hazel has to resist the urge to let out a whoop as they fly above the crowds, up towards the hill. The wind cuts through her jacket, but the chill is negligible, compared to the swooping warmth in her stomach.

To her surprise, Frank doesn’t pause when they near the summit, and the stairs leading to the great church are far too crowded. Instead, he lands directly on one of the high front balconies of Sacré-Cœur, with the dome behind them. Hazel slides off of him, and calls the Mist to her as Frank changes back to human form, making sure that they appear as nothing but pigeons to anyone looking up.

“I know we shouldn’t be up here,” Frank admits, looping an arm around her waist, “but I’ve heard about the view, and I wanted to make sure that you got a really good one.”

Hazel touches his cheek, grinning with mischief.

“Paris is turning you into a bad boy.” 

He laughs. “Stop.”

She thinks to tease him some more, but then Frank turns her to face the city, standing behind her with his arms around her waist. Hazel draws in a breath, and doesn’t let it out for a long, long minute.

Montmartre cascades below them in gradations of white and grey. Off to the west, the sun is beginning its descent, reaching its golden-orange hands across the city. It almost looks as if parts of Paris are aflame, and the many orange lamplights blinking on only elevate the illusion. The vast stretch of the city takes her breath away, while somehow making her feel taller than ever before. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stands out like a beacon. Everything about the city seems to glow, and it’s one of the most beautiful things that Hazel has ever seen.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Frank murmurs near her ear. She leans back against his chest, and then tilts her head up to look at him. His features look carved and patrician in the light, and his fingers toy absently with the string around her neck.

“Yeah.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Amazing.”

~

By the time they get back to the hotel, it’s around six-thirty. They’d taken a tour of the basilica, which isn’t as old as some of the other structures in the city, but still felt stately and powerful. Neither of them wanted to stay out at night so far from the hotel, so as soon as the sun had finished setting, they were on their way.

Hazel takes the bathroom first, and then checks their itinerary for the trip while Frank showers. Most of tomorrow is still blank; Frank wants to keep most of her birthday a surprise. After the seventeenth, they plan to spend two more days in Paris, two in Bordeaux, and then head back home, a few days before Christmas.

Frank exits the bathroom, dressed and towelling off his hair. Hazel puts away the itinerary so that she can get to work polishing her spatha. It had taken a fair bit of Mist manipulation to get it and Frank’s arrows onto the plane, but it had been worth it. Vacation or no, a large chunk of them belongs to the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, and travelling weaponless is not an option for soldiers like them. Hazel hopes she won’t need it, but being apart from it is out of the question.

Draping his towel neatly across the back of a chair, Frank joins her on the bed while she finishes up.

“Anything you want to add to the itinerary?” he asks.

“I pencilled in a little town in Bordeaux I want to go to, but other than that, I think we’re all set. Unless you wanna tell me what we’re doing tomorrow.”

“Not a chance.”

She wriggles her nose at him, and he just winks back.

When she’s finished with her sword, she crawls up closer to him and gets cosy beneath the covers while Frank remains on top of them. It’s still the easiest thing in the world to cuddle close to him and put an arm around his long waist, press her face against his warm chest. One of his big hands rubs little circles on her back. All the walking and activity of the day is catching up on them both, and Hazel is asleep before she knows it.

~

She wakes up a few hours later, her head pillowed on Frank’s stomach. Hazel squints at the clock: it reads 11:23. Frank’s stomach is still warm and comfortable, and she squirms and tries to go back to sleep, but ten minutes later, she’s right where she started. Her stomach grumbles.

“Yeah, I can’t get back to sleep either.” Frank’s chest vibrates gently with his voice. Hazel looks up to see that his brown eyes are wide open.

“Nnngh. We shouldn’t have let ourselves fall asleep so early.”

“Our internal clocks are going to hate us,” Frank agrees.

Hazel gives up; as cosy as this is, her entire body feels awake and alert, and she’s never going to get back to sleep now. She crawls up to sit with him, and they prop themselves against the headboard. He lifts an arm automatically so she can fit herself alongside him.

“Hi,” she says, stretching her toes. Frank kisses the top of her head.

“Hi.”

“How long have you been up?” He still looks a bit sleepy-eyed, but Hazel has seen him go from snoring to battle ready in less than five seconds.

“Not long, about a half hour. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I think my stomach would have done that eventually.” It rumbles again, louder than before. Those galettes seem like they were ages ago. Frank pokes her belly playfully. She slaps his finger away and pokes him back, and that starts a brief tickle fight from which Hazel emerges victorious. As usual. She’s smaller, but she’s not afraid to exploit his elbow weakness.

“Uncle, uncle,” he laughs, and lifts her bodily off of him, settling her back on the bed. “Gods, you’re vicious.”

Hazel winks. “Even more so when I’m this hungry. Hint hint.”

“Hm.” Frank pretends to think. “Grandmother always said you shouldn’t eat after nine o’clock…”

“But neither of us are going back to sleep any time soon.”

“Point. What would you say to a midnight picnic, Ms. Levesque?”

Hazel cups him by the neck, tugging him down so that she can nuzzle his nose gently with her own.

“I love how you always know what I’m thinking.”

~

They put together a little basket from the hotel’s restaurant and the twenty-four hour grocery next door. Then, Frank flies them to the Arc de Triomphe. Paris is brilliant at night, each quarter working hard to cement its title as the city of lights. The Eiffel Tower positively shines, all lit up and standing out against the cloudy grey sky, and the streets are lined with pinpricks of gold. The city is just as, or possibly even more animated than it was during the day, and it is no stretch to imagine that this was once the centre of the West.

The Arc is easy to spot as it is, ringed with lights in honour of the season. Frank sets them down gently on the roof, and for a moment, all they can do is look out at the view. Soon, Hazel spreads out their sheet of linen on the floor, and divides the food. They sit nestled together, feasting on croque-monsieurs (with soy cheese for Frank), chocolate pastries, grapes and sparkling apple cider. Conversation comes easy, their voices echoing softly high up above the noises of people and traffic.

At one point, Frank leans closer to her. Time seems to go still for a moment as he tucks a twist of hair behind her ear, and lays the sweetest, gentlest kiss on her cheek. Hazel touches the spot. He kisses her there all the time, but this one feels different. She smiles, a bit hesitant.

“What was that for?” she asks.

In answer, Frank raises his watch to her eyes. It reads 12:17.

“Happy golden birthday, Hazel.”

The look in his eyes is so tender, and Hazel feels like she’s overflowing. Moments like this make her feel as if she’s cheating her way through life. A perfect day in Paris, a perfect night, a perfect boyfriend… Is one person even allowed this much joy?

There’s nothing she can do but throw her arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you, you big dork.” She kisses his neck, hears the huff as he tries not to laugh. “Time coordinated and everything. Did you plan this?”

“Nah. I was going to do it at five seventeen this afternoon, but then someone suggested a picnic, and I couldn’t waste this opportunity.” 

Frank leans back, and one of his big hands rests chastely on her sternum, covering the little bag containing his firewood. Underneath, her heart thuds. _This is your life_ , she’d reminded him the second time he gave it to her, feeling the awesome weight of his trust. It’s miniscule now, barely the length of two of her knuckles. And Frank had only smiled, and nodded.

“I love you,” he says now as he’d said then, with the same gentle smile, the same faint blush. Hazel surges back in to the circle of his arms, so content she could burst, and around them, Paris seems to burn brighter than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was my first PJO/HOO fic, I’d be glad for your thoughts. :)
> 
> Some links/pictures.
> 
> → [Les Arènes de Lutèce](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ar%C3%A8nes_de_Lut%C3%A8ce), an amphitheatre constructed by the Romans in 1AD.  
> → [La Crypte archéologique du Parvis Notre-Dame](http://www.crypte.paris.fr/en/homepage), crypt beneath Notre-Dame where historical ruins, many from the Gallo-Roman era, are stored.  
> → [Le Pont des Arts](http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2014-06-09/paris-locks-of-love-overload-bridges-threatening-structures.html), where the locks are actually causing structural damage irl, so def. don’t do this if you go to Paris, haha.  
> → [One of the markets](http://cdn.c.photoshelter.com/img-get/I0000QspS4GTgrYE/s/750/750/RF-Crowd-Goutte-DOr-Marche-Barbes-Market-FRA253.jpg) in la Goutte d’Or. [[source](http://samisarkis.photoshelter.com/gallery/City-Life-Vie-Citadine/G0000XGgCf0r0mjw/)]  
> → [View from Sacré-Cœur.](http://adventuresofadietitian.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/img_8146.jpg) [[source](http://adventuresofadietitian.com/2012/04/18/the-hike-up-to-sacre-coeur/)]  
> → [View from l’Arc de Triomphe.](http://www.panoramio.com/photo/6274708)


End file.
